Unfortunately my story isn’t as touching as the one above, but this was the day that I truly believed in Santa (the person (elf?)), not just the embodiment of the “Christmas Spirit” (what Christmas is all about). But alas, not all can be “feel good,” some just are what they are.
I was probably ten at the time. In those days
I shared a room with my little brother. Our room had two windows and looked out over the roof of our closed-in porch.
Dad used to tell us that
Santa would land on the roof of the porch, climb through our window, walk through the family room, down the stairs, through the kitchen and into the living room where we had our Christmas tree. I was getting to the age where I had doubts about Santa. Some of the kids at school who had parents that didn't play "
the Santa game" were starting to ruin it for the rest of us. Then one foggy
Christmas Eve, Santa came to visit.
I awoke in darkness, it was sometime in the middle of the night. When my conscious mind reminded me that it was Christmas Eve (now
Christmas morning) I was wide awake. I don't know why I didn't just throw the covers off then, jumping up to wake my brother and eventually my parents in a mad rush to open anything with my name on it. But I didn't. I just lay there, still, for some unknown reason.
I was buried under my
green sleeping bag, even my head was under the covers. There was a small area between my blanket and the bed where my
blanket had bunched, giving me a small window to look out into the room. I peeked out, towards my brother’s bed. And there he was. The jolly old elf.
I think most
Americans have been socialized to know
Santa Claus. To have a
Platonian version of him in their head. If nothing else, burned into their memories from countless visits from him in various commercials through the years. I developed my "ideal form" of Santa at that moment, he sat just six feet away.
He sat on the very corner of my brother's bed, he might have even had an
asscheek on the windowsill. There was a faint white light coming through the window behind him, from
the streetlight reflecting off the snow. I could only see his outline, he was completely in shadow. My strongest visual memory from that moment was looking at the curls in his beard. His beard must have been large, and the curls vaguely resembled the "
@" sign, curling multiple times. I didn't take a long look at him, both from fear and from the myth that "if you stay up and see Santa Claus you won't get presents."
He sees you when you're sleeping, and he knows when you're awake, remember. I did. I knew that he was staring right at me, if I didn't pretend to fall asleep fast he'd just go back out the window and forget my house that year. I curled back up and closed my eyes. Then I heard the sounds of boots on our wooden floor.
The sharp sound of his footsteps quieted when he hit the carpet of the family room. Next the stairs, then I couldn't hear him anymore.
I was excited. He was leaving presents and I figured that I could do anything I wanted now, he wasn't going to go take them back. I decided that I would confront him, just to say 'Hi,' at least. And that's my last memory, I must have fallen back to sleep.
The next morning I told everyone what I had seen. I remember my parents being a little less excited then I was. I couldn't figure out why they weren't just busting with excitement after what I had seen. The years went by and I held onto my Santa sighting. I probably believed in him longer then most of my friends, anchored by my experience that night. Eventually I let go, but I never conclusively decided that it was a dream. The only dream-like quality of it was who was in it, and although it has been almost fifteen years it still seems real to me. I'm not saying that I believe in Santa Claus, but that dream was real enough for me to shake off doubters for years. I only wish some of my "other" dreams would have the same realness to them, (you know what I'm talking about). *
wink*